Looking for the High Life
by Rapier-of-Red
Summary: You don't get to choose your lot in life. You're dealt your cards and it's up to you to play your hand. Do you go all in or do you fold? Live life to its fullest or crumble under pressure? AmeCan AU, further summary and warnings inside.


Hello, dear readers. Buckle up for another long one. I've suffered a sudden relapse in health and it's the first time in the past month or so that I've felt up to doing anything but bemoan my existence. Regardless, here is another very long fic, and I really hope you enjoy it. I hit some pretty sensitive topics and if I offend anyone I assure you it was not my intention at all. If I offend you, please tell me in a message and I will try to explain my reasoning. Thank you all for your support and brillantly kind words on my previous story (especially to my lovely anons, to which I could not reply personally. I hope this one measures up.

Warnings: existentialism, illness, angst, religious topics ( a bit ), vague allusions to male/male romantic situations.

Pairing: AmeCan, of course.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or "The Life" by Hinder. They are mere play things for a sick and lonely girl.

An: edited for mistakes.

Without further ado, let's get a move on...

Looking for the High Life

You are dealt a certain set of cards the moment you come into consciousness. Whether or not these cards are favourable is not up to you. You see, fate loves to play games; to hit you right where it hurts. Fate likes to give you the one thing you want most at the one price you can't ever hope to pay. So, you live your infinitesimal life and you strive on, young soldier, you strive on.

Alfred F. Jones, for lack of better, more poetic words, was not dealt a good hand. Born to a woman who died in childbirth and a man who drowned his sorrows in the church, prayer and drink, he struggled through. It was the rough nature of his birth, however, that gave him his most fatal flaw.

Alfred Jones was born with a congenital heart defect, an abnormality of the heart which, if left unattended, could take his life. The magnitude of the abnormality had the doctors vetoing the idea of surgery and instead placed him on a steady dose of diuretics. It was hard to say how efficient these medications would be and there was always an air of doubt in the doctor's explanations and condolences.

("_It _should_ regulate the problem." The doctor replied, handing Arthur Kirkland a bottle of pills that rested against the prayer beads in his hand, worn down with use. _

"_Should? What does that mean, exactly?" Arthur stressed, eyes wild._

"_I mean you should make sure you're ready." _

"_For what— _

_…oh.")_

Despite the adversities that Alfred was to face, he grew up with only minor problems. The abnormality did not get better, but did not seem to be deteriorating, either. Arthur saw each day as a blessing, a beautiful treasure upon which to be the utmost grateful. He was strict in his teachings and made sure Alfred grew into the word of the risen Lord.

He took Alfred to masses and to ceremonies, to prayer services and to sermons, instilling in him a love and fear of God. Every year on Alfred's birthday, if Alfred were having a 'good time' in his fluctuating health, Arthur would take him down to the graveyard to visit with his wife, Alfred's mother. He would sit them down and have Alfred hold the prayer beads as they spoke the words, over and over, pressing love and sadness into tangible word; spoken until throats went dry and meaning fell into rhythm.

("_Does Mommy love me, Daddy?" four year old Alfred asks, peering up at his father as they sit in front of the headstone. _

"_Of course she does," he replies, fingers tightening over the cross in his hand._

"_Am I__ going to go see her, soon, Daddy?" An innocent, open question, curiousity genuine in his tone. _

"…_I don't know, Alfred, I don't know."_

_Can you bury your child in the ground? Lifeless eyes lost to the world, soul escaping on a summer's breeze)._

* * *

So Alfred grew with love, each day surprising them both. Times, however, did not always fare so well. There were darker times, more deadly times, times when Alfred screamed in agony and Arthur sobbed into the broken, heartless darkness.

(_Ten year old Alfred fought for each gasping breath, heart clenching and squeezing in his chest, pain immense and immeasurable. He is on fire, nerves alight with a burning, twisting blaze, spreading up and down, up and down._

"_Alfred, oh, Alfred," Arthur cries, holding his son to his body, cradling him off the hospital bed. "Baby, are you ready," he asks, holding the young boy close, "Are you ready to go up and be with your mother? Are you ready to leave?"_

_And Alfred can only gasp and nod, eyes shut tight for the force behind his eyes, pressure building and building)._

But fate was not finished with its game, no, no, not yet. It loves to toy with people, to take their certainties and rip them away. And so Alfred Jones did not die that day. There were greater stories to tell, greater games to play.

Perhaps he should have died that day. Perhaps it would have spared him from what was to come.

* * *

The older Alfred Jones got, the more adverse he was to his father's religious teachings. It started with honest questions, small, gentle things: why would God take my mother? Why would God make me sick?

Arthur did not approve of such thoughts and therefore increased his reprimanding attitude, shutting out Alfred's questions and attempting to drown his son's 'impure thoughts' with prayer and study. This caused tensions to rise between them until they both began to prepare for the blowout that was sure to come.

It is after a relapse that leaves him shaking uncontrollably for weeks, that nineteen-year-old Alfred decides he has had enough. He rips the cross from his wall and hurls it out the window. He snaps the prayer beads hanging from his wall and throws both it and a prayer book into the garbage can.

He and Arthur have words that night. It starts out simple enough,

"What have you done, Alfred? What have you done?" Arthur rages, fury tangible as he pulls the prayer book from the trash.

"I'm not a child anymore, Arthur. I've long since stopped believing in fairy tales," Alfred snaps back, anger simmering dangerously in the back of his throat. He has had enough of this, enough of Arthur.

"Blasphemy! Alfred F. Jones-Kirkland, I raised you better than that!" the vein in Arthur's forehead twitches, face reddening in his rage. His body is shaking.

"I'm sick of praying for every day! I'm sick of pretending that life didn't fuck me over, that I'm not just a sick fucking loser who's going to die without leaving a mark on the world!" Alfred is screaming. He cannot see for his anger is blinding, white-hot rage spilling over into his actions as he rounds in on his father.

"Alfred! You do not—"

"Don't you dare try to tell me that I'm not! Don't you fucking _dare_ try to tell me that I'm 'following God's path' or whatever bullshit you've been spouting for years," he's glaring at Arthur with reckless intensity, pain and frustration boiling down to a single, stationary being.

"Is this some existential crisis, Alfred? Have I not told you that the Lord has a plan for you? You're not seeing clearly! He has a plan, He knows your fate!"

Alfred Jones snaps.

"_Existential crisis!_" he roars, shoving his father to the ground. "He knows nothing because He is not real! He is not up there! I am alone, dammit, alone in my misery. There is no _fucking plan_ because I am a dead man walking."

Arthur stares up at his son with frightened green eyes before his mood drops and suddenly he is up and holding Alfred to the wall. "_You are no such thing!_ How dare you disgrace His name that way! If you don't want to believe then maybe...maybe you should just leave." His tone is caustic, cold beyond cold and it douses Alfred's burning rage like a sudden storm.

Leave? …huh.

Alfred turns and leaves the room. He comes back down after to find a stunned Arthur standing in the same spot from before. He shoulders his rucksack and brushes past his father without a word. He makes it halfway out of the room to the door before Arthur runs after him, catching his arm.

"Wait!" he gasps, "wait, Alfred, no. Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving," comes the empty reply.

"But…but your medication, your condition…Alfred, I didn't mean it! Alfred, don't do this, please," sorrow in his tone, choked by forming tears.

"Let me go," he whispers, turning away.

"But, Alfred, you'll die out there!"

He turns and looks his father in the eye, watering green meeting fierce blue. He wants to relent (to repent?), to call off his stubbornness and let it go. But he can't. He's got to know if there's something out there for him. He can't let 'God' decide his path and lead his life. He needs to know if he'll ever know the answer and he sure as hell can't find out if he stays here, in middle of nowhere, USA. So, he shoulders his guilt and pulls his arm from his father's desperate grasp.

(There is no God, there is no God who am I to say there isn't but who am I to say there is? Who am I? What am I doing here?)

"I don't care," he bites out and, strangely, it's the truth. Anything is better than staying here. "It's my life, I'll throw it away if I want to."

And so Alfred Jones flees into the night, his father's sobs echoing in his ears.

_You'll die, Alfred, you're dead._

* * *

(I looked to the stars in search of myself, but diamonds in the rough can't teach me how to shine).

Alfred Jones (-Kirkland, though he never adds it in his introductions) wanders aimlessly. He sleeps in tents, in gutters, under bridges, under the stars, under dilapidated roofs, caked down with dirt and dust. He steers clear of houses of worship and drowns himself in open air, freedom and the ability to make his own decisions.

Life is not always roses, though, and there are nights when pain flares along his body that he longs for the safety and caress of home. He writhes on the bed, body bending in response to the excruciating pain and he cries to the skies _why are you doing this? What am I doing here if to burn and burn, to cry and break? Why aren't I dead?_

Waking comes slowly after those nights, a pulling ache out of the binding lull of eternal darkness. He wakes those mornings with a harsh craving for a hit of nicotine, for a death upon his lips for which he can be in control. This is safe, this is free, _I make my own decisions, I choose life or death_.

So, he lights his regrets and breathes them deep, heart pounding behind his ribs a constant reminder of what is to come. _Soon, _it teases, _or perhaps later. That is your hamartia; you do not get to know._

* * *

He travels without mind, winding up North, until he is days, perhaps, from crossing the border into somewhere in Canada. Freedom's alluring sweetness has turned bitter in face of his illness, dragging him more harshly down than ever before. Each day is a struggle of panting breath and a gnawing, resounding emptiness.

Why am I here, he thinks, eyes turned to the clear blue sky. Arthur had told him, once, that God smiled down upon the people when the sky was clear. That higher powers listened better at starlight and daybreak. He shakes his slowly depleting pill bottle and laughs, languid and raucous, _there is no one here but me. _

(There's only so far heaven can take you, when you've lost your path of righteousness; shot down and beaten for the things you've said but never done).

"Have I lost my mind," he whispers to the silent workings of the night, flat on his back as he bores holes into the starlit sky. "I was so sure I'd find what I was looking for. Have I lost my mind?"

The wind pulls through the trees, slow bite to it as the months progress into winter, September fading into October with a draping of bitter coolness. The sky does not bend to Alfred's will, no matter how he tries.

"Is this my answer?" he asks, laughing sadly to himself, "I don't get it."

* * *

"You know, kid, smoking'll kill ya," rasps the man on night duty, voice like crumbling rock along a stream; warbling and damp. A voice that sings of irony, of cold nights with the glow of tobacco embers the only pleasant company.

"There's a lot of things that'll kill me. I figure my nicotine addiction ain't a battle I'm going to be winning anytime soon, so why fight it? If I'm gonna die sometime, anyway, I might as well be responsible for my own death," Alfred replies, voice acidic around the filter of his cigarette, as he cups his hand around his lighter to block out the biting October wind.

"Feelin' a little philosophical, there, stranger?" comes the amused response, man shaking his head lightly as he bends down to continue his work. Isn't often he meets someone new, no, not in these parts. This is a small town, a quiet town, a town where you're guaranteed to know everyone's business better than your own. He sizes Alfred up, from the tattered jeans, frayed at the hem and torn in the knees to a well-worn, faded bomber jacket. _Must be a drifter, _he thinks, watching the man (boy? He couldn't be more than nineteen…) take long, deep pulls of his cigarette.

"Ashes to ashes, and all that," Alfred bites back, sardonic half-smirk in his voice as he flicks the excess embers off his drag with a pointed look. He tilts his head back; staring at the cloud cover over the stars with such a rush of disappointment it's a struggle to keep it from showing on his face. His eyes dull from their vibrant blue to a hazy midnight navy, worn heavy with sorrow he dares not speak.

_So._

_So, I really am alone, aren't I?_

For a moment, a prayer comes to mind, fluttering in with desperation, but with another flick of his wrist the thought slips away like his ashes in the chill of the wind. The bitter emptiness is all encompassing. Thoughts are speeding by and his broken heart is b-b-beating a frantic rhythm. Memories attack his mind; shards of glass found in a bed of flowers: sudden, painful, there, ripped from fantasy and grounded to the Earth. You are here, it mocks, you are alone.

"Though I 'preciate the play on words, I'm sure that's not what they meant when they said that," the man laughs, hoarse and thick, drawn tight with lymphatic wheezing.

"Yeah?" Alfred mutters, not much listening as he bares his soul to the night sky, arms spread unconsciously in patriarchal offering; a pariah of the living world, "I'm not so sure of much, anymore."

Around him, the world turns, the man leaves and Alfred has no questions answered.

* * *

It's been five months since he left home, five months since he renounced his faith and left to find an answer to a question he's not even sure he's asking.

He has maybe a good two, maybe three months of medication left, but the thought doesn't worry him as much as it should. He's been waiting to die his whole life. Maybe this was just a way for him to take the uncertainty away and allow himself control.

It's been five months of torture, five months of aching stomachs and parched lips, of begging and pleading, of lying to himself, to the world. People offer him pity, when they catch him stumbling down the street, hand locked on his chest, clenching on and off to the shots of pain spinning through him. They look at him and think, _oh, brave boy, there goes the walking dead._

Five months of searching, a lifetime of disappointment. He doesn't know what leads him to where he is. Blue eyes fixate on the desolate, forsaken church in front of him, rooted to the ground. Dare he walk inside?

He rubs his hands together, breathing onto them in eager search of warmth, unable to fathom a reason why he should step inside (or why he shouldn't). In the end, the primal seek of warmth sends him through those unhinged doors.

Empty, silent; desolation's last embittered embrace. Cold to the core of the very soul, dragging down, down, _down._ Ice blue eyes glass the quiet loneliness of the abandoned church.

(_Huh, _he'll think later, _I suppose we were all abandoned)._

How ironic, he thinks, that the church seems to have forgotten him as easily as he had forgotten it. He feels foreign, obtrusive, standing in the darkness, eyes locked on a few dimly burning candles sat resolutely on the chipped, golden arches of the alter.

He slumps into a pew, rucksack landing with a _thump_ beside him, kicking up dust that reverberates into the open silence; a pressing reminder: he is alone. His head comes to rest on his folded hands, a mockery of a prayer form he once practiced long ago.

He thinks of his father in this instant. Not his Father, no, but the man who gave and gave until all Alfred Jones knew how to do was take. He thinks of his father's gentle hands, guiding his over prayer beads when his illness left him bedridden. He thinks of cold nights, wrapped in blankets (wrapped in warmth and safety and _love_) listening to bright and glorious tales spun from thin air. ("_Tell me the one about the parade! The parade and the fame and fortune!" "Alright, alright, lie down, chit, lie down.") _He thinks of his father's weeping face, watching him slam that door and begging him not to; and so he thinks of home, and all he left.

His chest aches at the notion of remembrance, his heart is a _wreck_, his medication is running out and just _what the fuck am I doing, _he thinks, eyes clenched tight.

He's a speck of nothingness floating in an unstable purgatory, a limited life in a limited body. What had he expected to find, out here? Had he hoped he would find the answers he was desperately searching for? Did he think he was some unsung, martyr hero; the only sad asshole with a shit lot in life?

No, all he is, all he ever will be, is a lonely boy, in an empty, confusing world, born to die a non-righteous death. No glory, no parades, no tales of grandeur. Just a sad, little casket waiting in nowhere-ville USA, a handful of mourners and a plot in the ground dug and set with a name people will grow to forget.

Alfred Jones is a bright boy, a strong boy, but Alfred Jones is afraid of the truth.

"What am I doing?" He whispers to the stagnant air of the lonesome congregation. When the aching silence is his only answer, he begins to rise.

"What am I doing?" He starts again, standing, hands tight around the pew in front of him, then, louder, yelling at the statues of the immaculates, "What the _fuck _am I _doing _here?"

The bitter emptiness echoes its silence and fuels his rage, his desperation. He needs answers, he _has to know, he has to, _every _goddamn _fiber of his being needs to know there's a reason for this, for life; for this despicable, deplorable labyrinth.

He grips his hair, moving to stand in front of the dimly glowing alter, as if some hope of response will come if he approaches. He drops his hands to his sides, fists tightening.

"_Well_?" he shrieks, hands clenched so tightly that his nails find purchase in his palms, "Answer me! Are you happy? Are you happy watching me fail at every goddamn thing I've ever done? What am I doing!"

He spreads his arms, bloodied palms upturned in an unconscious sacrilege, a crude imitation of the risen Son of God's most memorable form. The stillness mocks in lieu of reply and Alfred Jones sees red.

"Answer me, dammit! _Answer me!"_ he cries, kicking an empty candleholder and sending it flying with a grating, resounding _crash._ He flings the chairs with a brazen yell and wreaks havoc on the alter, flipping it and sending the candles to the ground. Instantly, they ignite the old, dry wood that's long been left to rot, secrets and answers lost in the rising flames.

He screams, drops to his knees and pounds the ground with white-knuckled, wood chipped and blood-soaked fists, a self-inflicted stigmata, sobbing to the empty air. The flames lick and burn around him but he doesn't move except to grip his hair and let out a piercing wail.

The fires of hell have risen around him, choking him with their encompassing smoke. He turns and runs, grabbing his bag and stumbling all the while, aching sobs drowned in the crackle and hiss of the church.

When he reaches the doors, he throws himself through them (_accepting judgment; quick, release your sins, last day of Earth_), coughing and crying and _why am I here, why. _He collapses to the ground and dreary, blurred eyes watch the church reflect his actions as it crumbles in the flames.

"What am I doing?" he whispers, eyes glowing with the blaze in front of him, body curling into a ball; infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things. You are here, you are alone.

The silence beckons.

* * *

Alfred Jones meets a new fate in a small town across the border. He drags himself into a small local diner, struggling to keep his eyes open as the night calls for him to sleep. He orders something randomly and lies his head down on the booth, shivering from fever and lack of nutrition.

"Matthew! Matthew, mon chou, can you please bring this to table twelve? Non, non, twelve. Oui, one-two. I know you're tired, I'm sorry." Alfred hears from the backroom, a stranger's voice the only sound in the empty café.

He hears a long sigh and the sound of shuffling before the back doors swing open and a thin, pale boy in a red toque pushes his way through, carrying a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. As he approaches, Alfred notices that there is a line of thin stiches peeking out from under the hat, that this 'Matthew' has the most alluring eyes he's ever seen, and that he seems to be dead on his feet.

"Sorry about the wait," he says, placing the items down in front of Alfred with a yawn. He rubs his violet (_violet?) _eyes with one hand as he pulls down his sleeves with the other. He is the first person Alfred has had talk to him in three weeks.

"Thanks, Matthew," he mumbles, voice dry and sharp from lack of use. He watches the boy start, dropping down from the clouds of sleep-delirium and stare at him.

"How…?"

"I overheard, sorry," Alfred apologizes, settling into his food.

"Oh. No, that's fine, uh…"Matthew replies, gesturing for a name he doesn't know.

"It's Alfred, Alfred Jones."

And with that, fate is sealed. There is a beautiful game to play.

* * *

It starts out slow, Alfred meeting up with Matthew in the diner and maybe staying a little longer than socially accepted. It starts with shared smiles, shared looks and shared stories.

It's through these meetings that more come, that they meet outside the confines of the restaurant and begin to truly know each other. It's during one of these meetings that Alfred finds out that Matthew is suffering just like him.

He says, _I may not suffer from humanity for much longer, are you sure you want to waste your limited breaths by talking to me?_

And Alfred smiles when he answers; _We're all going to die sometime, Matt._

Matthew was diagnosed with brain metastasis when he was ten years old. Try as the doctors might've, surgery has been ineffective, and as the memory loss grows, the tumors grow in stasis. He gets sick, gets better, relapses. People breathe oxygen, grass is green, the sky is blue; the world turns, and so life goes on. It doesn't stop with each blackout, each fall into illness' tempting embrace. No, you strive on, soldier, as so does everyone else.

_I could wax poetic about the failings of human mortality and the dread of illness but I may as well tell you that the sun will rise tomorrow. You are here, you are alone._

* * *

Closeness is dangerous, deadly. Each is a ticking time bomb of their own account, waiting to erupt and take as many down with them as they can. Still, Matthew's cold, pale hand wraps around Alfred's and they smile.

And so a fire fell in love with ice. A love that burns bright but burns all that it touches. For, sooner or later, ice will melt and the sun will cool. They try to ignore the pull, the lure, but it is as if they are trying to ignore the fact that they need to breathe to live.

Matthew sits by Alfred's side with words of love and encouragement hushed into the darkness of Alfred's screaming, heart tormenting his body. Vise versa, Alfred sits by Matthew's side and presses soft kisses to his head and neck when Matthew lapses in memory, in function.

It's a cloud hanging over their relationship, a constant nagging knowledge that one may wake up to find the other has slipped away in the night, cold limbs and caustic embrace the last reminder of warmth and happiness. Despite this, they love bright and they love deep, completing an unstable world and answering a pounding question.

(_Are you ready to die, now, now that you've found something that makes your life valuable? No? Oh, well, this isn't good. This isn't good at all. 19 years waiting to die and a single dot, a single life in a pool of seven billion is enough to change your mind. Pity you are sick)._

* * *

Matthew has news, one day, news that he wants to deliver in private. So they drive out into the country and settle down on a blanket under a starlit sky.

(The powers are watching).

"I…I have good news and bad news," he starts, looking anywhere but at the man sitting across from him. His hands are shaking so badly he has to sit on them and he's bitten his lip to a chapped mess.

"Alright, babe, what's the good news?" Alfred asks, trying to remain hopeful. Bad news, while never a blessing for anyone, is even more so not when coming from someone suffering. So he protects himself by asking for good news, first.

"Ah…well…" Alfred can see the doubt in Matthew's eyes, the way he looks to the side in hopes to hide it. They've only known each other for three months, but Alfred can already read the emotions in his eyes like they were laid bare for him to see.

"Well, the good news is, I have a surgery coming up. They think this'll do it, for good. I'll be officially cancer free," his tone is upbeat, cheerful, but Alfred can see that there's a downside hanging over each of Matthew's carefully chosen words.

"That's great!" he enthuses, genuinely happy for his lover despite the anxiety mounting in his chest. He reaches to pull Matthew into a hug but he puts up his hands.

"But…" he whispers, eyes closing, "they say I won't even remember my name, when they're done."

Oh. There it is. The knife of uncertainty carving a river of sorrow through your soul, twisting and tearing until you feel bloodied, raw.

"If I…if I forget who you are," Matthew continues, unable to meet Alfred's eyes, arms wrapping around his legs, "if I forget…"

"…Matt," Alfred shifts from his position, finally breaking his stunned silence, sits up and presses his shoulder into Matthew's, scooting closer on the blanket they have spread beneath them. Matthew can't look at him, won't look at him. He doesn't talk again for some time. When he does, his voice is strained, thick and pasty, swallowing around the feeling of glass shards lodged in his throat.

"If I forget who you are, Alfred F. Jones, please don't hate me." He finally chokes out, voice cracking around every other word. His eyes stay trained on the blanket's edge.

"Wha—"

"Please don't hate me. Please, just," Matthew laughs, acrid and deep, sorrow in its purest, rawest form, "just don't hate me. Just hold me and love me and don't let me forget that I love you."

Matt's violet eyes finally flick up to meet Alfred's and he staggers with their intensity. Without a word, he reaches up to thumb at the tears gathering in Matthew's lashes. Doesn't realize that half the water he is seeing is from his own blurring vision, his own mounting pain.

"Matthew," he cradles with his tone, gentle, loving, _oh, so loving, _"Matthew, don't."

"But if I forget—"

"Shh," Alfred cuts him off, soundly, cupping his quivering cheek with a trembling hand. "It's going to be okay, Mattie, trust me."

Matthew's breath rushes out in a sob and he grips Alfred's hand and _I don't want you to die, _he gasps between chest heaving sobs. Alfred's eyes gentle, and he presses a soft, firm kiss to Matthew's lips.

"I don't want you to die, either, Matt," and it's the truth. The most painful truth. Who will outlive the other? With Matthew's operation on the cusp of realization and Alfred's ever depleting medication, the odds are not in his favour.

They fold into each other and all is silent for a while, save from tear-drenched gasps for air and attempted words of comfort. It's a mess. It's all a mess. How the fuck could this have happened? A lifetime of questions whittled down to a single, profound statement: you are here, but you are not alone.

Seven billion people in the world and Alfred had to fall for the one that had lost fate's twisted game of roulette. His eyes close and he buries his face into Matthew's neck, arms tightening.

(How do you escape the labyrinth? Do you go hard and fast, like suicide? Or do you wander aimlessly until the choice is taken from you? Here is your gun, it has one bullet. You either bury it into your brain or you walk with the gun until you die of starvation, malnutrition, loneliness, a broken heart, a failing brain).

It's Matthew, surprisingly, who breaks the silence later, lying under the stars.

"If I forget who you are, I guess I find my way out," he whispers, voice ghosting out in his near-sleep state. Alfred hums in acknowledgment, eyes fluttering as they try to stay open and focused on Matthew's face. "I'll be dead. I'll be dead because I can't remember living a life not loving you."

(Or do you point it at the one you love and free them from themselves?)

* * *

Matthew's operation day comes much too quickly for their liking. It's a morning of tear soaked love, desperation thrust into a pit of despair. This is the end; this is the last moment of clarity. Today, Matthew Williams will either die, or live without a single reminder of his past self. They make love with abandon, heart-wrenching cries torn into the air in passion and love.

After, Alfred wraps a bracelet around Matthew's wrist, engraved with a flowing script. The front reads _I will love you till the end of time, _the back,_ Alfred + Matthew. _This brings a smile to Matthew's face as he wraps a similar band around Alfred. It speaks, _My heart belongs to you, take it as your own. _

The drive to the hospital is a blur of tears and declarations of eternal love. Infinity stripped to a single minute, a single operation. They kiss once more and Matthew leaves to say goodbye to his family, his friends. They wheel him away on a steel gurney and Alfred Jones falls into himself.

(He prays. He gets on his knees and he prays. He shakes out his empty pill bottle and he prays).

* * *

Alfred can feel it deep in his bones, knows he won't live to see the coming of spring, and _oh, it's not fair_. He stands in the doorframe, staring at Matthew's prone form. The machinery attached to him does nothing to detract his beauty, ethereal, painted porcelain lying on starch white sheets. The feeding tubes and respirators go through the motions of keeping him alive, of assuring recovery from such extensive surgery. He watches the forced rise and fall of Matt's chest and has to close his eyes.

Matthew won't be there, when this stranger opens foreign yet achingly familiar violet eyes. Alfred's dying, that's the truth of it. Is he selfless enough to die alone? Can he walk from the room right now and assure that Matthew Williams will never know the pain of Alfred Jones' death? Or will he stay, stay and hurt this new-minded boy with his love. It's warfare, in his heart and mind. _Can I make the right decision?_

_I don't want to remember him like this, _he thinks, tears gathering. He turns to leave, to walk away from light and love and safety. To keep Matthew safe from harm, he must never let Matthew know who he is. _I'm sorry, Mattie. You wanted me to hold you when you forgot me but I can't. I can't do that to you._ He makes it to the door when he hears Matthew stir. Despite what he's been told ("_Sorry, Mr. Jones, he doesn't remember a thing."_), Alfred's ragged heart beats faster, each pulse a painful reminder of what is inevitable.

Matthew opens hazy violet eyes and makes to sit up. He lets out a grunt of pain and within an instant Alfred is there, steadying him. It's just like before (_"Haha, you're so clumsy, Matt!" "Oh, shut up!"_) , Alfred helping Matthew and Matthew smiling gently. But once he settles into a sitting position, owlish eyes peer at Alfred and _oh_.

Oh.

It's like the floor has bottomed out. The world is full of uncertainties again, monsters under the bed and an infinite amount of people more important than you. It's not so much an ache as a solid being, a solid mound of sorrow and emptiness. Alfred can't breathe because—_ why is he looking at me like that, oh God, oh God, Matthew no, no…!—_Matthew is gone, safety is gone; the opening of the labyrinth gated shut.

"Matthew," his legs give out, he bites his lip and oh, _oh_, he's going to cry. He reaches out for Matthew's cheek, aching for contact and Matthew pulls back. It happens in an instant, one millisecond lost in the spiral of a thousand more, but that's all it takes.

Alfred can't be here.

Sensing the mood, but not quite understanding, Matthew recovers from his initial flinch, leaning in to Alfred's still outstretched hand.

"Who are you?" he asks, softly, genuinely concerned. "Was I important to you?"

Alfred nods, sobs scraping up and out, the sound nearly inhuman, a vestige of a man. He can't do this. He thought that losing Matthew to the claws of death would be bad but it would have been nowhere near as excruciating as this. Matthew died, and a stranger took over his body.

He gets up, cups Matthew's face with both hands, presses a long, shuddering kiss to Matthew's forehead, whispers his undying 'I love you's' and turns to leave; once and for all, finality at its finest.

"Wait!" comes the wounded cry from behind him, ripped from a parched throat; desert storm embodied in a single word. It would take a willpower he doesn't come close to having to keep from stopping and turning around again. Matthew is leaning forward in the bed, arms outstretched.

He is crying. The bracelet dangles from his pale wrist.

"Please," he pleads, confusion and pain in his voice, frustration laced with uncertainty, (love?), desperation. "Are you Alfred Jones?"

Sound fades around him. The world boils down to this moment. To two broken boys and a single question. He lives, breathes and sees nothing but Matthew Williams. He can't hear for the static in his ears, the sudden push-pull of blood humming in his veins, the force staggering his barely beating heart. His eyes widen and he can't move.

He can't form words.

"…I left myself a note," Matthew continues, non-pulsed by the melt-down in Alfred's mind. "It says, '_please tell Alfred Jones that I will always love him.' _Are you Alfred? I-I-I feel, I feel like, Alfred, please, I— dammit_. Dammit_!" Matthew folds into himself, sobbing out his frustrations.

Alfred wants nothing more than to wrap Matthew in his arms and take away the hurt, the confusion. Wants to take Matthew's face in his hands and tell him how much he loves him. But he can't move, he can't, because Matthew is dead, and to fall for this stranger would bring nothing but pain. Oh, but oh is it ever tempting.

It's a brutal battle of ethics, of morals. Do I go down alone or do I drag the only person I've ever loved down with me? Do I cock the gun in my mouth and wave good-bye, hurting no one but myself? Or do I stumble along with him, hand in hand, weighing down his heart with the shards of my own? At whom is my gun trained?

In the end, the answer is simple.

Alfred Jones is a bright boy, a strong boy, and Alfred Jones is no longer afraid of the truth.

"No," he manages through clenched teeth, "No, sorry, Alfred Jones is dead."

It takes a minute for the information to sink in. To transfer from words to sounds to meaning and he watches the spectrum of emotion cross Matthew's face. Confusion, bitterness, anger and then his chest aches at the anguish that settles on his delicate features, lighting his face with horror.

"He can't be!" Matthew screams, fists clenching in his blankets. This was his one grip on reality, on himself. A simple, internal knowledge, _despite all else, I am in love with Alfred F. Jones. _It grounded him, kept him in moderate safety, something to hang on to in a sea of uncertainties. Which is why, "He can't be! He needs to know that I love him!"

_You don't, you don't, _Matthew_ loved me. You don't even know who I am._

Alfred crosses the room, resolutely, takes Matthew's hands from his sheets and holds them to the staccato beating in his chest. "I'm sorry, Mattie," he whispers, tears readily spilling down his cheeks, _I love you, I'm so sorry but this is for the best, Matt. _His eyes lock with Matthew's and he says, "Alfred Jones died of a broken heart."

Matthew rips his hands free and pulls Alfred into a desperate embrace, sobbing '_no_' over and over again. It takes all of Alfred not to relent. He pets Matthew's hair and hushes him gently, sweetly, _I love you, Matthew Williams, but I cannot be responsible for breaking you. _

(Do you think being sick makes you special, invincible? Against what? You are sick, you are here).

"But I feel like I know you," laments Matthew, tone soaked in sorrow and desperation, an open reflection of Alfred's thoughts.

Alfred pulls away, presses another warm kiss to Matthew's forehead and, with conviction, tells him that he doesn't. Says, _I'm sorry, you don't know me, _means, _I'm sorry, you won't ever know me._

He stands and turns to leave, walking away. As he reaches the door, he turns, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. He meets Matthew's reddening amethyst eyes and chokes out, "Alfred loves you, too. Oh, _God_, so much. He always will, no matter what. He'll meet you capital S, Somewhere, Mattie."

He closes the door behind him and Matthew's wail of anguish is lost in his own.

* * *

Alfred makes it nearly halfway back to middle of nowhere, USA, before it comes to him. It comes in the early waking hours of the day, soft light caressing like a lover, holding him gently in this final transition.

_I always wanted to die at starlight_, he tells the open air, dying alone in the world he lived. No parade, no tales of grandeur, just a sad little boy under a cloudless blue sky. He spreads his arms open, body pleading ("Please," he whispers, "please take care of Matthew."), mind dulling to the tortures of the world.

His heart gives its last few desperate beats, and he calls his father. Says, _I'm sorry, Dad, I love you, it's coming, I'm sorry. Please forgive me, _hears, _Oh, Alfred, Alfred, I love you, lad, please don't forget, I forgive you, I love you, are you ready, son, _answers, _love you, too, Dad, I'm ready. Don't worry, because I'm ready. _Thinks of calling Matthew but he throws the thought aside, letting his arms fall slack and wide again, accepting.

His last thoughts are of Matthew's laughter, carefree and bright, warmth consuming him.

He dies at 6:05am, in the middle of a snow encrusted field, arms spread in patriarchal offering; a pariah of the living world. He dies with a smile on his face and Matthew's name on his lips.

He thinks, last thoughts before fading, that maybe he meant something to someone once upon a time. It's good enough.

The sun rises as Alfred falls, eyes closing as a brilliant day begins. A crescendo of heart beats before the staccato ends.

And, that's it. Out, brief candle. Infinitesimal speck in the grand scheme of things. But, that's alright. That's fine. Each speck has its purpose and lives its life, leaving a mark, no matter the size.

* * *

A wail rips through the air as a devastated blond boy clips an obituary from the paper, presses it to his heart and sobs. Sobs for a love unknown and a life forgotten.

_It was him, it was _him_; I _had_ him, I lost him: I am alone._

* * *

"We're losing him! Code Blue! Doctor, pleas—"

* * *

"Do you believe in an afterlife, Mattie?" Alfred asks, head pillowed in Matthew's lap, cigarette hanging between his lips.

Matthew glances down at Alfred, ignores his flaws, his hamartia, and _loves._ Loves with every fiber of his being. "Like Heaven?" he asks, running his fingers through Alfred's hair and wondering if his would feel the same, if he had any.

"Well, I guess, yeah!" the brokenhearted boy replies, grinning up at his lovely anomaly. "Do you?"

Matthew thinks for a minute, pauses and actually searches himself for an answer. It's not really something he'd given much thought to. "Maybe not angels and clouds…but yeah. I believe there's something else after. A…a somewhere…"

Alfred laughs, clear and bright, the epitome of health wrapped in a sick body. "Me too," he rasps between laughter, "me too, Matt."

Matthew laughs, too, laughs because he can't believe how much he loves this imperfect piece of humanity in front of him. Alfred reaches for the clouds in the blue sky but settles for Matthew's neck, pulling him into a kiss.

It's later, after words of endearment hushed in panting breath, moving skin to skin, heart to heart, mind linked, that Alfred whispers conspiratorially,

"Let's meet up there, someday."

* * *

"Clear!"

"Do we have a pulse?"

"No! Get back, clear!"

* * *

"What if I can't find you?" Matthew asks, biting his lip raw, wringing his hands.

"Can't find me where, Mattie?" Alfred replies, smiling at him over the back of the couch. Matthew returns with hot chocolate and hands Alfred a mug. He settles in comfortably, Alfred welcoming him into the blanket; into his arms.

"Somewhere," he mutters, snuggling close. His eyes flutter to a close as he sighs, falling into Alfred's warmth.

Alfred presses cocoa warmed kisses to Matthew's neck and smiles, "Gonna be a bit more specific, there, babe?"

Matthew leans into his caresses and meets Alfred's eyes. "You know," he starts, pecking at the other's lips in a succession of three quick kisses, "capital S, Somewhere. Death. The end of the labyrinth of suffering. You know. There."

Alfred stops to think of his response and Matthew looks away, cheeks reddening. He goes to say, _forget I asked_ when Alfred cuts him off.

"Just follow your heart, Matt."

* * *

"Patient shows no vital signs, Doctor!"

"Turn up the voltage, try again!"

* * *

"I can't think when I'm around you," Matthew admits, laughter in his tone, as he presses words of love onto Alfred's stomach, kissing the muscles on his way down. He feels the laugh vibrate through his lover's body and smiles.

"My heart stops when I look at you," Alfred winks, but the adoration and awe in his voice makes Matthew's whole being flush. This is love, he thinks, this is the way out.

They laugh together, whisper-quiet promise of never-ending love.

_I may not find the meaning to life, but I know why I'm here._

* * *

"That's all we can do."

"Do we call it, Doctor?"

"….Time of Death, 11:18pm."

* * *

Matthew Williams dies in a hospital room, operation having set off an unforeseen hemorrhage. He dies with Alfred Jones' obituary in his hand, and Alfred Jones' name tattooed to his heart, wrapped around his wrist.

He doesn't die a hero's death. He doesn't die in a beautifully tragic way. Matthew Williams dies in the hospital that diagnosed his illness.

A million more will die in this hospital.

He hopes, with his last dying thoughts, that he'll meet up with Alfred somewhere. He hopes that death will be kind and grant him his memories so that he can love Alfred with all the fierceness and passion that the boy before the operation did.

Matthew Williams dies with a smile on his face, under a roof and under the stars.

* * *

"How do you want to die, Alfred?" Matthew asks, staring up at the stars glittering above his reach.

(Life's a harsh mistress, one that peers over your shoulder at the most inopportune times, just when your fingertips have glanced the edge of stars).

"What?" the golden boy, fingers reaching for the sky, answers sloppily, eyes fixated on the world out of his grasp. _Gravity is cruel_, he thinks, keeping you from holding the world in the palm of your hand.

(Twists and turns of fate have left you mangled – beaten down to dust; but what rises from dust? [Is it all I'm meant to be?])

"Dying, Al. How do you want to die?" comes the breezy response, thoughts escaping the burrows of his mind and fluttering into the open air, the sky, the stratosphere; superfluous, continuous, _how do you want to die?_

(If I pass the stratosphere how can I find the ground beneath me, my rock, my hard place [where am I suppose to meet you?])

Alfred rolls over, cages Matthew to the ground with his body, presses him into a powerful kiss, stealing breath, answering questions.

"If I had my way," he answers later, tucked into each other, "I would die right here, right now, under a starlit sky and wrapped in your arms."

"Yeah," Matthew whispers, heart laid bare for Alfred to take, "me too."

You don't get to choose your lot in life. You're dealt your cards and it's up to you to play your hand. Do you go all in or do you fold? Live life to its fullest or crumble under pressure?

(I've bypassed gravity and fallen into you, through you, until we fell away).


End file.
